An Amish Harvest

by Beth Wiseman

  “Maybe you’re just nervous.”

  Martha stamped her foot. “I am not nervous. I’ve worked here long enough to understand—”

  “This is the biggest auction we’ll have this year. Lots of Englisch and Amish . . .”

  “They’re only people, Eli. More people. I will personally be happy when the Fall Festival is over—”

  “Hasn’t started yet,” he muttered.

  “I was only drawing your attention to this particular couple because the situation bothered Joey, and it seemed out of the ordinary to me. You keep your eyes peeled. The man, he is tall like you and wears a ball cap pulled low. The woman was wearing black jeans and a black T-shirt.”

  “I’ll keep a watch for them. Now are you ready?”

  Martha downed what remained of the cup of coffee and hurried after her boss. When she’d moved to Shipshewana, she’d expected her life to be different—to be difficult and full of new things and new people. What she hadn’t expected was for her boss to be a crotchety old bachelor. She didn’t mind the hours spent at the auction house, and she loved doing the books—numbers calmed her and helped her to forget the situation with her aenti. Martha was pragmatic about what she’d gained and what she’d lost. There was no turning back, and she’d determined to make the best of things, as Fannie had cautioned her many times since her move.

  Hurrying from their office into the auction barn, she was a bit stunned at the size of the crowd. The barn was an eighty-by-two-hundred-foot facility, and today it seemed that every inch was covered with people. The doors at both ends had been opened to allow in the fall breeze. She caught a glimpse of trees, their leaves beginning to turn red and gold and brown. Beyond that was the outdoor flea market—one hundred acres, which boasted everything from fresh produce to hand-sewn quilts to homemade baskets.

  “All nine hundred booths are full in the market,” Eli said. “Even more people than usual are here because of the Fall Festival. We should fetch gut prices for today’s items.”

  She hoped so. Perhaps once they had purchased the items they came for, some of these people would leave. It was entirely too crowded for her taste. Shipshewana itself was a small town—only six hundred residents, half of whom were Amish. During market days, that population often swelled to over thirty-five thousand.

  The auction was set to begin at nine o’clock. They had lined up all ten of their auctioneers to work until closing at three. Most days Martha worked in the quiet of the office she and Eli shared, tallying up what each lot had gone for, being sure that each buyer paid for all of their merchandise, reconciling the day’s total revenue with the items that had been sold. Once everything balanced, she wrote checks for the folks who had hired Eli to auction their items. The auction house kept between 10 or 15 percent, depending on the contract signed by Eli.

  Each auctioneer had a scribe assigned to them—someone who would notate the item, buyer number, and amount of the sale. Today there weren’t enough scribes to go around, which was how Martha found herself crossing the crowded floor of the auction barn in Eli’s wake. She would be his scribe, which meant they’d be spending the day in each other’s company. Her, Eli, and a few thousand visitors.

  Though she didn’t like the crowds, she couldn’t help being affected by the atmosphere—a kind of cross between a carnival, fall outing, and shopping spree. Just on the way in from where she’d parked her buggy, she had passed one booth filled with pumpkins, another selling fresh apple pies, and a third with scarecrows on a stick. The scarecrows were more adorable than scary, and she’d thought about purchasing one for their garden. It was easy for Martha to become caught up in the excitement. Though the auctions ran fifty weeks of the year, this was the last weekend of the flea market.

  Folks literally filled every square inch of the barn.

  The weather was cool and crisp—a fine fall day.

  Martha found herself relaxing as she enjoyed the call of the auctioneer, folks’ laughter as they bid, and the occasional whoop of joy when someone purchased an item they’d set their heart on. She had a short break after Eli’s noon auction.

  Unable to resist the aroma of hamburgers, French fries, and fresh funnel cakes, she hurried to the snack bar. Best to keep her energy up. They still had two hours to go, followed by more work back in the office. Reason enough to purchase the funnel cake along with her burger. She swigged it all down with ice-cold lemonade and made it back to their auction square as Eli raised his hands and announced the opening bid for the items from Charity and Jacob Weaver’s homestead.

  The Weavers were a sweet elderly couple who lived not far from her aenti. Martha had been to their home several times in the last six months. Often she took them food that her aenti declared was unfit to eat because it wasn’t prepared precisely to her liking. She hated that the Weavers would be moving to the old folks’ home in Goshen, but she understood the need. Since Jacob’s stroke, times had been hard for Charity.

  Eli opened the auction with bids for an antique dresser, and that was when Martha knew that something was very wrong.

  Chapter Two

  Eli treated all of his auctions the same. His aim was to get the best return for the person selling their prized possessions, and at the same time make it an entertaining and worthwhile experience for the buyers and onlookers. He’d been an auctioneer for twenty-four years—a young man looking for his spot in the world when he first realized he had a talent for it. He’d learned, over those years, to keep a good emotional distance from the items on the auction block.

  The one o’clock auction was different, and perhaps that was why he’d been more curt than usual with Martha. The woman was a fine bookkeeper, but she didn’t understand the way things were done in Shipshe. She was stubborn and outspoken. For those two reasons alone, she wasn’t the best employee he’d ever had. Frankly, she asked too many questions. Then there was her propensity to “brighten up” their office space. He didn’t need a coatrack, even if it was made of a beautiful oak and she had purchased it herself. It was as ridiculous as the basket filled with candy, which she kept on her desk for any kinner that might wander into the office.

  Martha Beiler was unlike anyone Eli had ever met before, and he wasn’t quite sure how to respond to her. So, too often, he responded with words that were abrupt. Like this morning. Plus his mind and heart had been filled with other things—specifically with his one o’clock auction. He’d known Charity and Jacob Weaver all of his life. It hurt his heart to see them suffer with Jacob’s deteriorating health. And in spite of how much or how often their Plain community stepped in, the situation was still more than Charity could handle.

  Which was why they were moving.

  Why they were selling off the items from their home.

  Why Eli was standing there, auctioning the items in Lot Number 28 and pointing to an antique dresser that he knew had been made by Jacob.

  “Who’ll give me two hundred dollars? Two-hundred-dollar bid, now three, now three, will ya give me three?”

  He fell easily into the rhythm and cadence of his work. Though other auctioneers continued calling out their lots in various sections of the barn, the crowd around the Weavers’ things grew.

  “Four, give me four hundred dollars? Going once, going twice . . .” When no one answered, he raised his hand to declare the item sold.

  Suddenly a man at the back, tall and wearing a ball cap, shouted, “Five hundred.”

  The crowd quieted. Occasionally someone would go over the auctioneer’s bid—either due to the excitement of the moment or because they were tired of trying to outbid one another. This man had not bid at all until that very moment.

  “Sold,” Eli declared, glancing at Martha who nodded that she had written down the bid and the buyer’s number. Her face was scrunched up in a concerned expression and she was nodding her head to the right as if she had a tic of some sort.

  Eli shrugged and moved on to the dining room table. This too was made of northern red oak, as was most of J
acob’s furniture. The man had been a fine woodworker, known throughout the state for the quality and simple beauty of his furniture. Eli had auctioned off the final pieces from Jacob’s workshop six months ago. All that was left now were the personal items that wouldn’t need to be moved to Goshen with Jacob and Charity.

  The dining room table included six chairs, which wasn’t particularly large, by Amish standards. Jacob and Charity had only had the one son, and he had died when he was but a small lad. The family was well liked, and they often had guests for dinner—he supposed that was why they’d kept it all these years. Eli himself had spent many a dinner with the two at the very table that he was now offering up for bid. Though it bore the scars of many years of use, it was worn to a smooth, beautiful shine.

  Because it was a small piece of furniture, he started the bid lower than he normally would.

  “One, give me one hundred dollars? One-hundred bid, now two, now two, who will give me two?”

  An Englisch couple at the back offered two. Eli tried for three but no one was taking.

  “Going once, going twice . . .”

  This time a woman dressed in black shouted, “Four hundred.”

  Eli felt a rush of satisfaction. The Weavers needed the money from this auction. He had no idea why folks would be overbidding, but neither would he turn the money down.

  Glancing again at Martha, he felt a spike of irritation. She was adamantly shaking her head and gesturing for him to walk over to where she stood. No way was he going to stop in the middle of an auction, especially one that was going so well.

  Next he sold two of Charity’s quilts, the dishes, and a well-used couch. The pieces went for about what he had expected. Then he stepped over to a sofa table, which was being sold with two end tables. Once again made of northern red oak, they were perhaps the nicest pieces in the lot. He prayed for Gotte’s wille, even in this, and then he began his call.

  “Five, give me five hundred dollars? Five-hundred bid, now six, now six, who will give me seven?” The bid worked its way up to a thousand dollars—a very good price.

  Eli tried one more time to raise it a fraction more. “Eleven hundred dollars, give me twelve. Who will give me twelve?”

  “Fifteen hundred.” It was the tall man at the back again. He hadn’t bid since the first piece, but Eli would have known it was him without looking. He’d once again waited almost too late and then jumped the current bid, stunning those around him. An Englisch couple shook their heads in disappointment. The price was more than they could or would pay. A furniture dealer Eli was quite familiar with marked the item off his list. It wasn’t worth fifteen hundred—both the dealer and Eli knew that.

  “Sold, fifteen hundred to the gentleman in the ball cap.” And when he said those words, he suddenly remembered Martha and her warnings about a tall man wearing a ball cap and a woman dressed in black. He glanced over at his bookkeeper, who was frowning mightily and noting the sale in her book.

  When he looked again toward the back, the gentleman in the ball cap was walking away.

  And the woman in black? She was nowhere to be seen.

  Chapter Three

  Martha somehow made it through the one o’clock auction in spite of the fact that Eli ignored her. It was the last auction he was calling that day, so as soon as it was over, he left to help the other auctioneers. Martha checked her book to make sure she’d noted each sale, and then she set off to find the stranger in the ball cap or his sidekick dressed in black. She had no doubt the two were working in conjunction with each other.

  The question was what were they up to?

  The building was jam-packed with buyers and tourists, and Martha was too short to see more than a few feet in any direction.

  “Want me to find you a ladder?”

  She heard the laughter in Joey’s voice before she turned and caught the sparkle in his eyes. Though he was 100 percent Englisch, Joey Davis reminded her of Fannie’s youngest. Just because Martha had been unable to have children of her own, didn’t mean that she was without a mothering gene. Fannie’s sons and daughters had felt like her children—and Joey definitely reminded her of Fannie’s son, Micah.

  Medium height, brown hair, and an ever-present smile, Joey was a good worker. He’d often stop by after his shift and talk to Martha about work, or the latest girl he was dating, or whether he should take more college classes in the fall. She’d listened to the first, rolled her eyes about the second, and told him to follow his heart on the third.

  “You remind me of my mother’s Chihuahua, the way you’re bouncing trying to see over folks.”

  “It’s too crowded in here.”

  “Yeah. All the auctions seem to be going well.”

  Eli referred to Joey as a gopher. “He goes for whatever I need,” Eli had explained during her first week there.

  Martha tugged on Joey’s arm and pulled him over toward the water fountain, where there was a small measure of open space. “The two people you told me about—the ones you saw this morning . . .”

  “Man and lady, checking out Lot Number 28.”

  “Yes. They’re the ones. I need to find them.”

  “Did they do something wrong? I could call the police—” Joey was already reaching for his phone.

  “Nein. I want to speak to them. Do you see them?”

  Joey moved left and then right. “I don’t. Are you sure they’re still in the auction barn?”

  “I doubt it. They didn’t seem interested in most of the items Eli auctioned, only the big furniture.”

  “There’s another furniture auction on the north side of the building.”

  “You go and check there. I’ll head out to the vendor stalls.”

  “Don’t get lost,” he cautioned, the smile returning to his face.

  “I know my way around the market stalls.”

  “I’ll come out and join you if I don’t spy them first.” He started in the opposite direction and then turned back. “What do you want me to do if I find them?”

  “Tell them . . . tell them the bookkeeper has a question about their bid. Take them to my office and then wait with them until I get there.”

  But she didn’t see the man or woman at any of the outdoor booths, and when she reached her office, only Joey was waiting there. She shooed him away and tried to focus on the rest of the day’s work.

  It was nearing five o’clock when Eli walked in. Normally he would nod to her and head straight into his office. But this time he stopped at the door, removed his hat, and turned it in his hands.

  “Tried to get over here earlier, but . . . seems everyone needed my help.”

  “So you did notice them?”

  “Of course I noticed them. They bought three pieces and paid too much for each one.”

  “Those two are up to no good.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe they don’t know the value of a piece of furniture. Some people have more money than common sense.”

  “There was a method though—to the way they worked. They alternated which pieces they bid on, so as not to draw attention to themselves.”

  “That could have been coincidence.”

  “And they didn’t jump into the bid until the item was practically sold.”

  “I noticed that.” Eli studied the chair across from her desk. Finally he trudged over to it and sat down with a humph.

  “There’s a possibility I’m getting too old for a full day on the auction floor.”

  “When your mind is filled with worry, each task becomes more burdensome.” When he looked at her in surprise, she said, “Something my neighbor used to remind me of.”

  He frowned at a potted fern sitting on the corner of her desk. Who frowned at a fern? She was quite happy with this one as it was responding well to the new spot on her desk. She’d found it in one of the vendor booths, at the back, nearly wilted into oblivion. Her fern was making a comeback, and there was no reason for Eli Wittmer to frown at it so.

  “I suppose I was worried,” h
e admitted. “Did they pay?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  He cocked an eyebrow and waited. Just like Eli—never one to speak a word when silence would do.

  “That is to say they sent someone with payment.”

  “Is there a phone number on the check?”

  “Paid with a money order.”

  “Not unusual . . .”

  “Not unusual for Amish who don’t usually have checking accounts, but it’s the first time I’ve had an Englischer pay that way.”

  Eli shifted in his chair. He glanced at the clock, frowned once more at her fern, and then said, “Perhaps we need to take a closer look at the things they purchased.”

  Chapter Four

  Martha hurried to keep up with Eli. It was strange being in the auction barn with all the buyers and tourists gone. Their footsteps echoed across the floor. She could just make out the whistling of George, the cleaning guy. He was in his seventies and insisted that work—even work like sweeping and mopping and taking out the trash—kept him young.

  “Do you need to call your aenti?” Eli asked. “I know she worries.”

  “Worry is a nice word for Aenti Irene’s nagging.”

  Did she imagine it or did Eli smile at that?

  Instead of responding to her comment, he said, “The items in question should be here. They’re usually not moved until later in the evening.”

  “I barely noticed what they bought. I was so focused on how they bought it.”

  “And I should have responded to your crazy attempts to catch my attention.”

  “So you did notice?”

  “I’m not blind, woman.” Now Eli was laughing, a sound she wasn’t sure she’d heard before. Maybe he was tired, and it was causing him to behave in an unusual manner. Maybe she didn’t know her boss as well as she thought she did.

  Once they were standing in front of the three pieces, Eli’s somber disposition had returned.